


Well Played, John

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Wisdom Teeth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3381494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short fic in which Sherlock has an impacted wisdom tooth.  Sherlock has apparently deleted all knowledge of 3rd molars.  Season 3 compliant.  In which John and Mary are separated and John is back on Baker Street.  Brief mention of Mary and Baby Watson (named Amelie).  Not a lot of angst, coupled with humor, and some fun at the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well Played, John

John and Amelie had a fantastic weekend, his weekend of visitation there on Baker Street. God, though, he hated how that sounded, visiting his own daughter. She was 2 going on teenager, and he and Mary had recently discussed setting a few limits on the indulgences that both of them wanted so much to give her. But they could see the writing on the wall, that they needed to occasionally say no. He recalled the terror children from med school days, and vowed no child of his would ever act that way. Hmmm, funny, that. The changes were going ok, she was figuring it out. She had also figured out that Sherlock was not on the same page, in the same book, or remotely inclined to say no to anything. He looked forward to the weekends with her, too, and even, to John's amazement, made sure the breakables and toxic waste experiments were out of reach before she arrived. But oh, he did cater to her. Which was why Amelie was so surprised when, on Sunday, when she handed him a book to read to her - something about skeletons, John saw with a fond warmth, the girl was _so smart_ \- and he quietly declined, everyone was surprised. John finished loading the dishwasher, came over to sit down, and could see immediately the reason.

He clutched a steaming cup of tea, and was allowing the ceramic warmth to rest on the side angle of his jaw. The skin of his mandible was not only slightly pink from the heat, but swollen as well.

He nodded. "Ah, toothache." Even as he stated the obvious, his flatmate's eyes narrowed in displeasure. Or discomfort. Or both.

"Brilliant." Not exactly a compliment.

Amelie handed her papa the book, and settled back against him to hear it, and point to the pictures. He loved her so much, regretted the misfortune of not having her with him all the time, but deep down knew they would pull through this. But each time she went back to Mary's, it tugged at him. All too soon, the book ended, and Mary arrived. She was cordial to Sherlock and smiling for Amelie's sake, but John - and everyone else who knew her - could still see a little bit of sadness in her eyes.

True, John had moved out but not until Mary had insisted. "I can't compete with him. I don't care what you do, but this is not working." He'd protested, but deep down agreed, and showed up one day at the bottom of the steps on Baker Street with a case, backpack, and slightly broken spirit. And slightly relieved to be ... well, home.

After the girls had left, Amelie waving and blowing wet kisses, John watched as Sherlock shifted the mug against his face.

"Going to the dentist then?" he asked, slightly amused but trying to hide that.

Scowl.

"Probably won't go away on its own." He disappeared to his room upstairs, having a late shift at the clinic, gathered his things, and paused again. "Wisdom tooth perhaps?"

"What is a wisdom tooth?"

"Third molar. Surely you've heard of them. Most of us humans get them extracted late teens. Not enough room. If you still have them, then, there's probably your culprit." He sighed, shifting his pack to pull out a penlight. "Let's have a look, then."

Unwillingly, Sherlock set down his mug, opened reluctantly, and John was quick with a visual exam followed by gentle palpation along Sherlock's mandible. It was tender, and as Sherlock winced and tried to pull away, John's hand was steady and warm. "Sorry, but sure looks like impacted wisdom tooth to me." He put his light away, straightened. He sighed. "Look, go get it checked out. Take something for pain." John pulled out his phone, scrolled, found what he was looking for. "I'm sharing the contact of the oral surgeon we refer to. You should call. Get it taken care of, so you can read Amelie a book next time she's over, you know, about the skeletons?"

****

The next day, John returned from his shift at the clinic to an empty flat. But not empty for long. He was just reheating remaining takeaway from some nameless Mexican place when Sherlock returned, a handful of papers, a pained expression, and a rather lopsided face.

"And?"

He didn't answer, just handed over the paper labeled Preoperative Instructions and the earlier scowl deepened into outright disgust. The rest of the paperwork followed, onto the table next to John's plate, trailed by a bottle with prescription strength pain medication. "I blame you."

"Well of course, I'm responsible for the mere presence of third molars in the human race, and I deliberately chose this very weekend to make yours inflamed." He punctuated his sentence by taking a large bite of Mexican enchiladas.

"You should have warned me, I could have taken care of this long ago." Sprawling in a chair, he all but pouted. The infamous Sherlock sulk was beginning. They had to be ridiculously obnoxious for John to pay them much attention anymore. It had been really great a few weekends back when both Amelie and Sherlock had thrown temper tantrums at the same time, and afterwards, John had laughed about it rather readily with Mary.

"No big deal, really," John reassured. "They yank teeth all the time. See, says right here, if you'd bothered to read, they have anesthesia right there in the office, you go to sleep, you wake up, done. Or local for those who don't like the stronger stuff." Slight growl from the chair. "When?"

"Tomorrow. They said I need a ride in case I want anesthesia."

"My day off. No problem." He leaned forward, puzzled by Sherlock's bizarre dread of the appointment. "What's bugging you?"

"Nothing. Just a bit... annoyingly nervous is all." He tossed another small baggie at John, labeled 'Valium' with 2 pills inside. "Half hour before the appointment."

John's eyebrows rose. "That should help. Both of them?"

He nodded, annoyed. "Apparently I was uptight in the office." He sighed, and John felt sort of bad for him, as this was out of character, too. "We'll see."

****

They passed the afternoon watching repeats of the Bourne trilogy, with Sherlock stereotypically groaning at the poor plot around the ice pack he kept to his jaw while John worked on his blog for that last case. He was tempted to draft something about the Consulting Detective's Losing his Smarts, but thought he'd wait until the story was complete. His browser history, which they both regularly checked mostly for giggles, had relatively benign searches for wisdom teeth extraction, complications of anesthesia, and pre-procedural sedation. And a search for children's books on body parts. He placed a mental reminder to check Amazon deliveries before Amelie came back. Either way, it was better than the graphic dismemberments from rotten.com a few days back.

****

All in all, the next morning went rather smoothly. Sherlock actually followed instructions, wearing comfortable clothes including a short sleeved tee shirt for easy arm access, and trainers. The drive to the office was quick, and thankfully not a long wait to get called into the back for the appointment, but Sherlock was pretty nervous, even after the pills, which surprised John as well as the office staff. John knew it was not a pain tolerance issue, as the guy almost had no sensations of pain until it was life-threatening. He hadn't done conscious sedation before, that John could remember anyway, since they'd met - maybe it was the possibility of twilight sleep that had him rattled.

There was a bit of noteworthiness to the morning. John would later wonder if the fullness in his chest was related to shock or simply nausea. There was a delay after they'd gotten everything ready, and John was comfortably chilling in the waiting room, until he was summoned to the back to wait by Sherlock's side to help pass the time. The staff thought that perhaps John could wait with him, the nurse said, and, with a hint of amusement, noted that "he's pretty loopy."

John could tell on first blush that the pre-procedural valium was working well. For his remote drug history, Sherlock must have been rather sensitive to it. His muscle tone was almost floppy, and his movements fluid, languid, slow. His bright blue eyes typically clear and focused, were fuzzy. There was some nystagmus, John recognized, a side effect. Sherlock had reached up to his collar, pulled him close, and said, "You have hair like my John." He reached up to touch with a shaky hand, slid it sloppily along his lip line, cheek, then cupping his ear. John was a touch amused and more than a touch... touched. Then, conspiratorily Sherlock said, "His hair drives me wild. Don't tell him." The hand pulled him so that their heads were touching, and an almost intoxicated Sherlock snuggled John's face, breathing the scent of his hair. "You even smell like John." This was followed by giggling and a mutter of "God, I wish. I wish... I wish he would just..." His hand relaxed some, and they drifted slightly apart. The words trailed off, and John watched him breathe. Talk about a surprise utterance. And while he was sitting there, debating about pulling out his phone to video this, since Sherlock would likely not recall this, and likely not believe it, but he calmed, then, settling instead for reaching his own hand up into Sherlock's curls. He, on contact turned his head toward John's hand, seeking warmth and comfort, John figured, so he allowed his thumb to stroke the side of his face. Not all the way sedated then, he realized, as he leaned into John, smiling slightly, lips slightly parted. Like watching something else unfold, John saw his own hand brush against slight stubble on the jaw, sliding over the lower lip, feeling warm breath and sensing the loss of inhibitions. John's eyes slid down the trim form in the chair, admiring curve of shoulder, trim but muscled chest, sweatpants that fit oh so nicely. And an animal-like magnetism as his eyes fluttered back open, focused now, admiration as he gazed at John with intensity. John left his hands on Sherlock's jaw and arm, surprised to see this sensuality that was not Sherlock's typical aloof, controlled behavior. The nurse down the hallway turned pointedly in their direction, and John allowed a final, wonderful, sensual caress of his flatmate as Sherlock seemed to be reaching behind John's head to pull him closer. John released him, breath catching, and offered an airy see you later as they rolled equipment in toward him to get started.

****

All four wisdom teeth came out easily, the staff had reported, minimal bleeding, and John listened to the post operative instructions, then guided Sherlock, surprisingly steadily, out to the waiting car. He was ridiculously awake, John thought, though his voice was quiet and his words more scarce than usual. Maybe, John thought, he'd get a bit of peace and quiet. Or at least less fussing. There was no mention of anything that went down at the office. Not one word.

****

About a week later, after laying sort of low, vainly keeping ice on that face (because we wouldn't want those cheekbones to suffer, would we?) Sherlock was finally eating well again - for Sherlock anyway - and the puffiness was almost gone. He was reminiscing about his case of nerves, laughed slightly at himself for worrying about it, and commented that he was glad it was done.

"You know, that valium you had taken before your appointment, you might be pretty sensitive to that." John offered, testing the waters.

"Oh? I don't remember too much after going in the back. Did you join me there?" There was a little furrow between his brow.

John sucked in a small breath, watching Sherlock stop working on the computer to take a sip of tea. "You don't remember?"

Piercing blue eyes met his steadily. "Not too much."

John let out the laugh he'd been holding. "You're full of shit," he said, and he tossed the bag of un-taken pills at his flat mate. He'd found them in Sherlock's coat pocket while he'd waited at the doctors office. "Idiot," he added, smiling. There was a sparkle then, as Sherlock realized his grave error. "Let's see how much you remember," John said, approaching, a predatory expression that he saw mirrored back at him in the gaze of his totally about-to-suffer-the-consequences flatmate.

**Author's Note:**

> Some stories just rattle around in my head demanding to be written. This one seems to have chapter 2 in the making but is complete as a stand alone.


End file.
